


You Came (And I Longed For You)

by Sosh_022



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/F, Period AU ish, Pining, Smut, half poetry half dick jokes, lightly inspired by that one katie mcgrath scene in dracula, poetic smut, this is just fleur and hermione being too horny to function
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:21:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27654020
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sosh_022/pseuds/Sosh_022
Summary: Fleur pities the woman who must marry her cousin. Except when Lady Hermione arrives, pity is the last thing on her mind.---"You came, I yearned for you,and you cooled my senses thatburned with desire."- Sappho, circa a long,longtime ago
Relationships: Fleur Delacour/Hermione Granger
Comments: 29
Kudos: 170





	You Came (And I Longed For You)

**Author's Note:**

> Special shout out to rice_and_beans for the prompt of "What can you teach me?" and the gentle encouragement to help me expand my writing horizons. Hope you enjoy it.

The winds are harsh in the final months of the year here in the south, biting and relentless, but short of a storm of disastrous proportions, very little is going to deter the Delacour sisters from witnessing the arrival of their distinguished guest for the week. They stand on the balcony of their family manor, dressed in thick heavy gowns made with the finest furs money can buy, overlooking the carriage below and the lady that steps out. 

Even from this distance, her features are striking and the two sisters immediately zero in on her as they huddle together for warmth.

It is Gabrielle who speaks first.

“She looks perfectly miserable. Do you think she’s had a rough journey?"

“Perhaps not so much the journey as the destination,” Fleur mutters, leaning over to get a closer look. “You would look miserable too if you had to marry cousin Henry. There are aged cheeses more agreeable than him, and sharper still.”

Gabrielle giggles into her sleeve. 

They watch as Henry rushes forward and bends a knee, placing his lips upon the lady’s gloved hand, lingering far too long before she has to pull her hand away with a thin smile. 

Fleur’s lips curl with mild disgust. She pities the poor soul that is to be matched with her cousin. Should fortune be generous, the lady will be of Henry’s equal, perfectly dull and perfectly perfect, obedient, quiet, and well mannered – never speaks unless spoken too, and never a toe out of line. Perhaps then she would not know the cages of such a marriage and instead come to enjoy it. 

It is not a life Fleur would ever find herself enjoying, but it is a life suitable for some, she supposes. 

She busies herself with observing the new addition to their family to see if her arrows of assumptions aim true, taking in the proud arc of the brows down to the sharp edges of her chin, when the woman looks up.

Fleur stills. 

The contact is brief, fleeting at best, but it holds for just long enough that Fleur feels something shift inside of her. The memory of a dark gaze is already seared into her mind even when the woman in question is long gone. 

She knows then that she is terribly wrong. 

The lady of the north will never make a fair match for her cousin – her gaze is much too strong, much too proud and inquisitive for dull, unremarkable Henry; and trapped in such a marriage, she will be absolutely miserable beyond her days. 

The thought nudges at Fleur’s conscience uncomfortably. 

“Come on then,” says Gabrielle, pushing off the balcony as the last of the lady’s entourage disappears inside their manor walls. “They will expect our presence at dinner soon.” 

Fleur tears her attention from where the woman was previously standing and takes a minute to check over her appearance, fixing her hair until it falls over her shoulder just the way she likes it. Gabrielle throws her an impatient look. 

“You look fine, sister. Why are you suddenly fussy? It’s not like you’re the one getting married.” 

“No,” Fleur breathes. “I am not.” Yet she cannot deny the unmistakable excitement brewing at the pit of her stomach. 

Lady Hermione is not what she expected.

And somewhere deep inside of her, a flame is lit. 

* * *

They meet for the first time just outside the dining hall. 

Fleur comes to a full stop by the doors as Lady Hermione appears around the corner. Her breath leaves her in a restrained gasp through parted lips, and along with her ability to breathe, so do her words. 

Up close, Lady Hermione is simply breathtaking. 

She does not even register her cousin’s presence beside her until he speaks. 

“Ah, Lady Hermione,” says Henry, cheerfully unaware, smiling with all the fortune of a man standing next to a gorgeous woman. “Meet my cousins, Lady Fleur and her younger sister Lady Gabrielle. Cousins, this is Lady Hermione, my beautiful wife to be.”

The two older women face each other and it is clear they are sizing each other up, neither willing to back down yet just as eager to be measured up to par. Fleur loses herself entirely inside dark mesmerizing eyes. She has never seen a more agreeable countenance than the one that stands before her now and she finds herself impossibly inclined towards the woman despite having just met her. 

Fleur cannot help but think what a laughable pair she and Henry make; she who shines so bright and he so glaringly plain. 

The two women curtsy to each other in greeting, eyes lingering on the other even as their heads nod forward. Fleur is purposeful in keeping her gaze above the shoulders. Lady Hermione is a stunning woman by all means, but unlike Henry, she has the decency not to stare. 

Hermione extends a hand and Fleur takes it gently into her own, holding it preciously between her own. The feeling of slender fingers burns into her palms and Fleur laments the layers of material that separate them. 

A part of her yearns to rip away their gloves. 

To feel her naked touch upon smooth skin. 

“ – pleasure to meet you Lady Fleur.” 

Fleur snaps back to attention just in time to catch the end of her greeting and manages to avoid looking like a fool, or worse, like Henry. 

Lady Hermione’s voice is surprisingly low, yet clear and crisp and Fleur can’t help but find it appealing; finds herself comparing it to the pleasant tunes of the pianoforte she played when she was little, and finds herself eager to hear more — eager to draw the various melodies out of her. 

Fleur bends her head slowly, blue eyes unwaveringly locked onto dark brown as she presses the lightest of kisses to the gloved hand. 

Something flashes in Lady Hermione’s eyes and Fleur feels excitement run through her like a shock. 

“The pleasure is all mine,” Fleur practically purrs. Their eyes stay glued to each other, heavy with a hint of something more. 

Gabrielle watches them from the side with a curious look, Henry long forgotten. 

The fire inside Fleur burns brighter.

* * *

  
  


They sit across from each other during dinner and under the guise of convenient positioning, stolen glances of hidden meanings are thrown in an abundance amidst dainty bites of fish and sips of wine.

Fleur eats ever so carefully, well aware of the eyes that watch her from across the table. Food becomes a lesser priority than the need to drink in Lady Hermione’s presence as much as she can, and every time Fleur chances a look, dark eyes meet hers. 

Her skin runs hot under the watchful gaze. 

The others at the table are none the wiser except for Gabrielle who has latched onto them with the suspiciousness of a waiting cat, but for the first time in her life, she does not speak up. Instead, she merely observes, content on waiting it out. 

As it turns out, Lady Hermione’s meticulous jawline is not the only thing sharp about her. Though young, only twenty and four summers ripe of age, just two summers younger than Fleur, her mind is keen and her tongue a seasoned weapon. 

Henry could live a hundred lifetimes and never hope to keep up with her wits. Fleur on the other hand is delighted to have finally found a mind to match her own. She takes her slow pleasure in picking at it, all in full admiration. 

All throughout dinner, they debate the politics of their kingdoms, the issues that plague their societies, and the passions that burn inside of them. They share their love for reading and discuss the classic works of Shakespeare, Voltaire, and Dante as well as the more contemporary works of Hugo, Austen, and Brontë.

They match wits and exchange banter and everyone else is left behind, struggling to keep up with their pace and their fervor. 

Fleur finds her smile widening with every well thought critique and passionate retort Hermione throws at her. Fleur throws back hidden challenges in her own words and Hermione rises up to meet every one. Fleur cannot recall a more delightful conversation in her entire life.

For an hour and more, even after the dessert has been cleared off the tables, they converse back and forth, unstoppable, under the curious gazes of their elders, Gabrielle’s knowing smirk, and Henry’s floundering expression. 

The dinner ends with much being exchanged between the two women and Henry having said little except the names of the dishes when they were first served onto the table. 

* * *

  
  


“I like her,” Gabrielle comments afterwards.

“I have not found any faults with her character yet,” Fleur says evenly.

Gabrielle snorts loudly, years of propriety classes thrown into the wind. She does not call Fleur out on her obvious lie. Instead, all she says is, “It is a shame she is stuck with Henry the Horrible for the rest of her life now. I do not know what her parents were possibly thinking when they agreed to the arrangement. Poor Lady Hermione.”

Something in Fleur shifts again at the statement, at the image of _him_ with _her,_ forever and in love, and it does not sit well with her.

“Good night sister,” Gabrielle bids her farewell with a quick kiss to her cheek. “Sleep well. I am eager to see what tomorrow brings us.” She leaves with a knowing smirk and Fleur swallows the rude words at her retreating figure. 

It does not mean her mind is free of other obscenities and profanities that night as she thinks of dark hooded gazes and slender fingers pressed against her palm and other places on her body. 

She closes her eyes and imagines the other woman hovering above her, feels the ghosts of a touch trailing lower and lower. 

_Teeth scrape lightly against her neck, a hand entangled in her hair, and a tongue that darts out, warm and wet, as lips enclose around –_

Fleur does not fall asleep until much later into the night and even then she dreams of delicate lips ghosting over porcelain skin, hungry and insatiable; a low voice whispering into her ears, singing her name. 

She has been set alight and she fears it will ruin her. 

(And she will let it.)

* * *

The next day, Fleur finds Hermione in the Delacour family library, though ‘finds’ is not quite the word she would use, more so pushed towards the library by her little sister’s incessant quips about a certain lady’s whereabouts. 

So Fleur heads to the library – of her own inclination and not because she’s grown tired of her sister’s obvious teasing – and finds Lady Hermione wandering through the bookshelves, an arm trailing behind her, as she runs a lazy hand over delicate time-aged bindings. 

Fleur takes advantage of the fact that she has not been spotted yet to stop and admire the other woman, admires the way she appears so lost in her own little world here, with eyes so full of wonder and gentle curiosity, and a relaxed posture of ease and contentment. And in her heart, Fleur knows exactly how she must feel. This is their window to the world, as women who are often locked to the confines of their walls, they travel through way of ink and parchment. This is their stable, their carriage wagon. 

Her eyes eventually leave the girl and instead focuses on the finger that is now stroking the spine of a book in gentle fondness, the touch ever feather-light and tender. 

Up and down. 

Her mind flees to a different sort of fantasy that is not captured within these books, and she imagines, _feels_ , the finger stroking something else, _somewhere_ else. 

Flashes of last night’s dreams come to haunt her. Desire burns through her, the heat rushing to her core. 

_Slender fingers pressed against her thighs, warm and insistent. Higher, she urges, higher –_

Fleur squeezes her legs together once and walks in. 

Hermione pulls her gaze away from the books with a startle, before tilting her head in greeting. 

“Apologies Lady Fleur, I did not notice your presence there. You caught me in my own head just now.”

Fleur returns the greeting and barely fights back the _‘So was I’_ from slipping out. She wonders what it is that occupies the other woman’s mind, wonders if she is not the only one so eagerly inclined and so plagued by inconvenient desires. 

“I see you have found my favorite room in the entire manor,” Fleur says instead. “I hope you find it rather agreeable?”

“More than just.” The look of wonder and curiosity is back on Hermione’s face. “I have always found a certain draw from books that I fail to find reciprocated in other people…” she pauses, glances at Fleur through lidded eyes in a way that feels purposeful. “Though there are exceptions, of course.”

Something flashes in her eyes, and Fleur finds herself stripped bare under the woman’s careful scrutiny. 

She takes another step closer. 

“Is there something specific you’re looking for? Perhaps I could be of assistance. I know this library like the back of my hand and have read every volume in here thrice over.”

Hermione raises a single eyebrow and Fleur finds it entirely unfair how attractive it makes her look. 

‘ _A deadly beauty.’_

Fleur has not understood the phrase until this very moment. How can something so harmless and appealing to the eyes be deadly? Surely the poets exaggerate. Besides, one can always simply look away. 

Now? Now she is fully aware of the dangers of beauty and may that very phrase decorate her tombstone as she lies in the earth, a victim to Lady Hermione’s otherworldly looks. 

“Have you now?” Hermione asks. “That is quite impressive.” 

“Indeed, I have had plenty of free time and reading, as you know, is _one_ of my passions.” 

The brow quirks even higher in interest and Fleur can feel herself falling apart at the seams. She licks at her drying lips and finds herself parched but not for water or tea. Hermione’s gaze drops to her lips as her tongue darts out and it is Fleur whose eyebrows rise in surprise. She grins and Hermione’s eyes dart back up, darker and heavier. 

“Well then, I shall defer to your obviously well informed opinion,” Hermione answers. Her voice breaks halfway through as she chokes on barely restrained emotions and Fleur’s grin widens. 

It appears she is not alone in her predicament. 

“Tell me, Lady Fleur, what are your favorites?” Hermione clears her throat. “I find that I can learn a lot about a person through what they read for pleasure.” She dips her head ever so slightly, and with a look that could only be described as coy, adds, “Will you allow me to indulge your mind’s pleasures?”

“You may indulge in whatever you like,” Fleur answers lowly. 

Hermione’s stare burns into her. 

“Then indulge me.”

“With pleasure.” 

She strolls up to a shelf, well aware of the eyes that watch her, and plucks a small thin book from where it is squeezed in place between two larger books. 

Hermione sees the book she’s picked and tilts her head questioningly. 

Fleur grins knowingly. “Do not judge it by its size. Just because it is not as big as some of the others does not mean it does not bring pleasure.”

Hermione nods once in deference, humor twinkling in her eyes. “Very well, I will hold my judgements until the end.” 

Fleur flips open the book casually, skimming through the sparse lines, and runs a finger down the page, savoring the feel of rough parchment against the silky material of her glove. “It is a collection of poems by a famous Greek poet. My favorite poet actually.”

“Poems?” Hermione echoes in interest. 

“Yes. Some critics have found them rather...unsavory if you will, as many of them deal with the more carnal pleasures but, _”_ Fleur glances up at Hermione, “I find them quite visionary if you are daring enough, written with words that are...naked to the flesh.” 

The corner of Hermione’s lips curl upwards. “Oh? And pray tell the poet’s name?”

“Her name is Sappho. Are you familiar with her work?”

A flash of something passes through Hermione’s eyes and Fleur desperately wishes it to be recognition. 

“I am,” Hermione answers carefully, quietly. “Though not quite as…intimately as I would like.” 

Her words are punctuated with a piercing stare. 

“Well,” says Fleur, throat drying. “I believe I can remedy that."

“Please do.” It comes out a mere whisper, one that barely escapes the lips, and the sound of it sends a thrill through Fleur’s body. She lowers her gaze to the book in desperate need of a distraction. 

Fleur flips to her favorite poem, one that she knows by heart and can normally recite with no problem, but Hermione’s gaze is a potent one and Fleur has never felt so bare or seen and she fears that she is slowly losing her wits. 

She takes a deep breath and begins to read. Her voice comes out low with barely restrained want. 

“He seems like the gods’ equal, 

that man, whoever he is –”

She flicks her gaze up, sees Hermione watching her with dark unreadable eyes and immediately drops her gaze. She wills her voice not to shake as she continues. 

“– who takes his seat so close across from you, 

and listens raptly to your lilting voice – ”  
  


The words _‘my beautiful wife to be’_ echo in her mind, and she bites down a surge of bitterness. 

“ – and lovely laughter, which, as it wafts by,

sets the heart in my ribcage fluttering.”

The same heart that is pounding now. What once might have fluttered like the delicate wings of a bird now thunders like the worst of summer storms. So much so that Fleur can barely hear herself speak over the rushing in her ears. 

“As soon as I glance at you a moment, 

I can’t say a thing 

and my tongue stiffens into silence – ”

Fleur swallows, recalls the way her tongue dried out in her mouth the first time she ever laid eyes on Hermione. Remembers the way Apollo swooped down and stole the power of words from her, rendering her as dumb as Henry; how the god visits her still, every time she finds herself in the presence of the other woman. 

“ – fever courses down beneath my skin – ” 

And so hot does she burn, Fleur wonders if this desire will turn her to ashes. 

“ – My eyes go dark and 

a rush of blood booms in my ears, 

Cold sweat covers me and …” 

She pauses, takes a deep breath, and exhales the next line shakiky. 

“ – a trembling takes ahold of me all over.”

_Trembling body arched in pleasure, mouth open in silent scream, fists gripping twisted sheets –_

Her hands feel clammy inside her gloves, and she aches to take them off. Instead, she grips the book tighter, unable to continue. 

Hermione picks it up, her voice a trail of smoke in the wind, and Fleur’s ears latch onto it like oxygen.

“I am greener than grass. 

I am dead – or almost

I seem to me.” 

Their eyes meet and Fleur hears nothing, _feels nothing_ , but the hot blood pumping through her veins. She wants nothing more than to fall apart. 

She swallows heavily and forces some amount of composure back into her body. 

“I thought you said you were not familiar with her works.” Fleur means for it to come out teasing, light, playful. Instead it comes out like a croak.

Hermione smiles, slow and heavy. Fleur cannot help but stare. 

“You misunderstand me, Lady Fleur,” she steps in, closing the remaining distance between them in a blink of an eye. Fleur dares not to move.

“I believe I said,” she leans in, “I am not as _intimate,_ ” plucks the book from Fleur’s weak grasp, “with her work as I _want_ to be.” 

Hot breath caresses Fleur’s ears for a second as she lingers there, suspended, before Hermione pulls away, a challenging glint in her eyes. 

“Really?” Fleur croaks out. Hermione’s perfume wafts through the air and Fleur finds herself intoxicated by its scent, by the woman that wears it. “I would be happy to teach you more.”

“Then you would find me an eager student.” Her tone is light, easy. Fleur has a hard time matching it. Not when every inch of her skin feels like it’s been set alight. 

Fleur swallows. “And I, an eager teacher.” 

Hermione stands there waiting. Expectant. But Fleur is suddenly not ready. 

“Perhaps some other time, Lady Hermione. If you would excuse me.” She turns and she flees from the library, hot blood pulsing within her veins, and Hermione’s disappointed gaze searing into her back. 

* * *

“What are you doing?” Gabrielle finds her sulking in the back of the kitchen with a plate of éclairs to soothe her sore ego. “Lady Hermione is currently walking around the garden _alone_ . In _this_ weather. Why are you not with her? And how many of those have you eaten?”

Her tone is accusing, pointed, and normally, Fleur would rise to the bait. But there’s nothing Gabrielle can say that she hasn’t already told herself. She’s beaten herself enough. Hence, the attempt to stuff her face full of warm pastries. 

“Do you think Lady Hermione would like éclairs?” she wonders as she holds the pastry up and examines it. 

Gabrielle stares at her. “What? Have you honestly lost your mind? Did you not hear what I just said?”

“Why is Henry not with her?” Fleur asks instead. She hasn’t really seen her cousin around the manor now that she thinks about it. She wonders if he is hiding like her, overwhelmed by the lady of the north.

“Who cares about him? Henry does not deserve her,” says Gabrielle, simple and plain. “She does not deserve _him_ , bless her.”

“I am beginning to think no man can ever hope to match up to her,” Fleur mumbles. 

Gabrielle sighs in exasperation at the forlorn look on her face. 

“No,” she agrees. “No man.” She pauses. “And what about you?”

Fleur huffs, her heart growing heavy at memory of her actions from earlier today. She has never been one to run, yet when faced with the danger, the risk that is Lady Hermione, Fleur finds herself unsure, weak. 

“I do not know,” she answers eventually. “All I know is that if I were to have her, I would desire nothing else of this world. That is how much she fills me.”

Gabrielle scrunches her face into a look of disgust. “You are absolutely smitten, sister. It is entirely unbecoming.”

Fleur hangs her head, defeated, and laughs. Because that is the simple truth, is it not?

Gabrielle leaves, throwing one last word of advice over her shoulder. “If you are going to do something, do it now. We can deal with Henry and the elders. Now is not the time to cower, sister.”

“I know,” Fleur murmurs. “I will.” And this time, she will not run.

She stands, eyes the plate of éclairs and pushes them away. She no longer has any need for the oblong pastries. 

* * *

  
  


Hermione stands half-dressed in front of a mirror in the middle of getting ready for dinner after her brief walk in the garden. The winds are as harsh and unforgiving as ever but even they could not cool her mind nor the desires that engulf her. 

Curse Lady Fleur and her sinful eyes for reducing her into such a pitiful mess. 

“Which dress for dinner, milady?” 

Hermione looks over her shoulder at her old aged handmaiden and considers her choices. She is not hungry, at least not for _food_ , but the consequences of not showing for dinner is too tiresome to deal with. 

“The periwinkle one.” 

“Er…”

“The blue one,” she clarifies. 

“Ah, of course.” The old woman puts down the other dress and begins helping Hermione into the dress. She’s busy lacing up the back when a knock comes from the door. 

“Lady Hermione? Are you in? May I enter?”

Despite the muffling of the voice behind thick stone, Hermione recognizes the voice right away, _feels_ her body react to it even as her face stays passively cool. 

“Not yet,” says her handmaiden. “Lady Hermione is in –”

“Come in.” 

Her handmaiden stills in confusion and sends her a look that shows her bewilderment. Hermione does not give her the satisfaction of being transparent. She stands tall and unreadable, well aware of the coolness of her back where it lays exposed to the air. 

The door opens and in steps Fleur, her purposeful gait faltering as she takes in the state of Hermione. Their eyes immediately latch onto each other in the mirror before Fleur’s gaze trails away, pulled by the sight of ample porcelain skin. 

Fleur stills. 

Her handmaiden catches her staring and pulls the dress closed. “My-my apologies. But Lady Hermione is still –”

Fleur shakes out of her stupor, looking more determined than when she entered. 

“No, no. Allow me.” She steps forward to stand right behind Hermione. She reaches up and gently replaces the hands of the handmaiden. 

The poor old woman is absolutely bewildered by this breach in protocol. She sputters, “Lady Delacour, please, I can –”

“I insist,” Fleur says gently, eyes never leaving Hermione’s through the mirror. 

The handmaiden stares between the two girls who both pay her no attention. Seeing that she is no longer needed, she gives up and takes her hasty leave, muttering something about propriety or whatnot as she exits the chamber.

The door closes behind her and they are alone. 

Hermione tilts her chin up and rests her cool gaze on Fleur’s reflection. “Can I help you?” 

Fleur flinches at the tone. 

“I came to apologize.” She dips her head in remorse. Loose strands of hair drift across an exposed nape before she straightens up. Hesitantly, her fingers begin to work at the strings of Hermione’s gorgeous dress, and she pretends not to hear the sharp intake of breath as she purposefully brushes her finger against bare skin. 

“What possibly for, Lady Fleur?” 

Though the words are cold, Fleur sees the way her pupils have dilated in the mirror. 

“Forgive me for running out on you earlier in the library,” says Fleur. “I did not mean to run. I was – I was not myself, you see.” She looks up, meets the waiting eyes that stare at her, and sheds her outer armour in a rare moment of complete vulnerability. 

“It seems not only have I lost my heart but also my self-control.”

Hermione stares back, heavy and unreadable. 

Fleur waits with her bleeding heart in Hermione's hands. 

Eventually, Hermione looks away. 

“You are forgiven, Lady Fleur.”

Fleur releases a breath – 

“As you will find yourself not alone in your predicament.”

Her eyes dart up in surprise. Hope thrums underneath her skin. The words hang between them like a tight string, waiting to be cut. 

Hermione is the braver of the two. Like a dance, she leads them forward. 

“Earlier at the library, you said that you had much to teach me.” 

And like a dance, Fleur follows. 

“I did.”

“What do you refer to?” Her eyes take on a mischievous glint. Naughty in its nature. 

This time, Fleur matches it. “Eager a student are we?”

“Always.”

“And do you pride yourself on knowing a lot, Lady Hermione?”

“I pride myself on knowing more today than I did yesterday.” 

Fondness preens through Fleur. Hermione is sharp tongued as ever.

“In that case,” Fleur steps closer, gathering her bravery. “There is something I can teach you,” her voice drops, “ _if_ you are willing that is.”

She gazes at Hermione through half-lidded eyes, dark and purposeful. 

“Oh?” Hermione does not miss a beat, raises a playful eyebrow. Her voice drops to barely above a whisper and Fleur shivers. “And what is it that you can teach me?”

Something shifts between them. Like two flames meeting. Fire on fire. 

Fleur steps even closer, leaving just a breadth of hair’s space between them. Hermione relishes at the inviting heat now emanating from her back and fights the urge to lean back. Fleur is painfully close and not close enough at the same time. 

Fleur bends, slow and calculated, lowering her lips so they ghost over the shell of Hermione’s ears, relishing in the goosebumps that rise on the back of her neck. 

“I can teach you,” she says, her voice maddeningly low as blue latches onto brown through the mirror, “the touch of a woman.” 

Fingers trail lightly over bare arms. Hermione traces their path on her body through the mirror. Watches as they travel downwards, slow and agonizing.

A nose runs across her exposed nape ever so lightly. Hot breath warms the back of her neck. Hermione does _not_ shudder. 

“Is that it?” she croaks. She swallows thickly and Fleur hums in satisfaction. 

“I can teach you the wondrous sights a woman has to offer. Every curve, every edge...every dip.”

The hands lower to her hips. Presses in just slightly. 

“I can teach you the scent of a woman,” says Fleur and she breathes in deeply, dropping her nose to the nook of Hermione’s neck, taking in the sweet scent of her perfume. “How it lingers in your pillows and in your sheets even after she is gone. 

Fleur exhales and Hermione shivers at the warm breath coasting her neck.

“I can teach you the sound of a woman when she is in the middle of her highest pleasure,” she whispers. “The moans...the _whimpers_.”

Hermione closes her eyes as her breath leaves her in shaky exhales. 

“And of course,” says Fleur, “the taste of a woman.”

Hermione turns. Lidded eyes stare at parted lips, and for a moment, time hangs on a fulcrum. 

Fleur leans in, only to move away as Hermione brings her chin up to meet her. Annoyance and want shines through half-lidded hazel eyes as lips ghost over her own, close but never touching. 

The slight brush of the nose. The teasing smirk as their lips graze against each other. 

_Come. Come for me._

“Are you willing to learn?” Fleur asks huskily.

“Yes.” It is all Hermione can do to even answer; perhaps the first time in her entire life, words are not a priority. 

They lean in. Hands reach up to cup soft cheeks. Their lips barely brushing, the fire raging beneath their skin – 

The door bursts open and they jump apart. 

“Lady Hermione, your handmaiden told me to – sister? What are you doing here?” Gabrielle eyes the mirrored flush on their faces and grins wickedly. “Oh, so sorry. Did I interrupt?”

Hermione is the first to recover. She brushes down her dress and fixes imagined creases. “No, no. Lady Fleur and I were just –”

She looks to Fleur for help. 

“Just uh–”

But Fleur is not faring any better. A lost hand lingers by her lips in memory of a phantom kiss. Words still fail her.

“We were just discussing poetry,” Hermione says lamely. 

“Of course, of course,” says Gabrielle in a poor attempt of sincerity, just barely holding back her laughter. “What else could two ladies get off doing all alone in a room with a bed except to discuss the wonders of _poetry_?” 

Hermione flushes and Fleur glares at her sister.

“That is enough Gabrielle. We will see you at dinner. Tell the others we will be there soon.”

“Will do. Just do not keep us waiting for long.” Gabrielle winks and turns to leave. She stops in her tracks and looks over her shoulder. “Oh and Lady Hermione?”

“Hm?” Hermione looks up, a pretty blush still coloring her cheeks. 

“Make sure you properly tie up your dress before you come down to dinner. We do not want poor cousin Henry or _anyone else_ for that matter, losing their wits about them.”

The blush on Hermione’s face deepens. “Of course. I will see to it that is properly fastened.”

“Very good.” Gabrielle nods once and sends her sister a pointed look before taking her leave. 

“Well then,” Fleur sighs. “Dinner?”

* * *

Dinner is a horribly awkward affair. Unlike yesterday, the conversations fall flat as the two women are too consumed by thoughts much too inappropriate to voice at the dinner table to contribute anything of value. 

Everyone notices and leaves them to their thoughts except for poor stupid Henry who cannot read the written word let alone the intricacies of a room. He is not deterred by Hermione’s lack of response and instead drones on about the breeches he commissioned for his wedding. 

Though subtlety is part of the thrill of the chase, Fleur has gone far past that line. Her body aches for the other woman and it is only out of respect for the elders that she does not jump her on this table here and now. She stares openly and longingly and she does not care who sees. 

She watches as Hermione slowly brings her spoon to her lips. Dainty lips carefully pucker around the spoon and Fleur finds herself staring at the movements of her jaw. 

Hermione catches her staring and sends her a knowing smirk. Fleur narrows her eyes in suspicion. 

Hermione picks up her fork next, spearing a piece of the duck meat, and brings it up to her mouth. There is a flash of white as she tears the meat off her fork so agonizingly slow that Fleur almost scoffs out loud.

Hermione smiles again teasingly and Fleur sees an image of those same lips marking their way down her body, sucking. 

_Kisses trailing lower and lower, beautiful brown eyes that peer up at her from between her legs, and that mouth – oh how sinful and skilled as it twirls –_

She huffs quietly. 

Fleur shifts her legs uncomfortably, for once grateful of these giant dresses she is required to wear, and looks down at her plate. 

Two can play at that game. 

Fleur flips her hair over her shoulder, exposing her long neckline. She takes a bite of food and moans obscenely. 

“My god, the _taste_.” 

Everyone is staring at her with wide eyes, but Fleur cares only for the woman across from her who swallows from a different type of hunger. 

Her tongue darts out and very slowly, she runs her tongue over her upper lip, slow and sensual. All the while she maintains eye contact with the woman across from her. Hermione however is doing a terrible job of keeping her gaze from darting to her lips. 

“This is absolutely delicious,” Fleur moans again. “Would you like to try, Lady Hermione?”

“She has some on her plate,” Henry points out and is completely ignored. 

Hermione sends her a terrible glare but the only thing Fleur is capable of thinking is, _‘Oh my! What beautiful fury!’_

“Perhaps later,” comes Hermione’s terse response. 

The sound of Gabrielle putting down her silverware rather loudly brings them out of the little world they have created for themselves. 

“I think I have rather lost my appetite,” Gabrielle announces, narrowing her eyes at her sister. 

Fleur does not show any hint of remorse while Hermione grins guiltily into her goblet.

“Is the food not to your liking?” asks their uncle. It is evident who Henry inherits his wits from. 

“Perhaps,” Gabrielle says vaguely. “But at least someone seems to be enjoying her food.” She sends another glare at Fleur. 

“Actually,” Hermione chimes in. “I am afraid I am finished with dinner too.” She sends Fleur a pointed look and Fleur catches on immediately.

“Me too,” says Fleur, practically throwing down her silverware. Soup splatters over her clothes but she pays them no mind. Gabrielle snorts, unimpressed. 

The parents eye them suspiciously. “But dinner just started –” 

“Must be the wedding nerves,” Hermione interrupts with sweet falseness. 

“Yes, the wedding nerves,” Fleur chimes in unhelpfully. 

Henry frowns at her. “You are not even –”

“May we be excused?” Hermione asks and Fleur tries not to gloat at how little Hermione cares for him. 

“I mean, I s-suppose –” Fleur’s uncle stutters. 

“Splendid.” They stand up almost simultaneously. 

“Where are you two off to in such a hurry?” Henry asks, a little late on the uptake. “You barely touched your bouillabaisse!”

“Oh no,” Gabrielle chimes in flatly. “Not the bouillabaisse.”

Fleur shoots her sister a glare over her shoulder. It is only nature’s course that Gabrielle chooses now of all times to be unhelpful. 

“At least stay for dessert?” Henry asks hopefully. 

Hermione grabs Fleur’s hand. “I’m afraid Lady Fleur here has promised to show me something and I absolutely cannot wait any longer.” 

She pulls her along and Fleur happily obliges. They waste no time in their departure, each too giddy with excitement to properly hide their anticipation. 

“Wait,” Henry shouts after them. “Show you what?”

“Poetry!” Hermione shouts back gleefully as Fleur muffles her laughter. 

Henry stares at them in absolute bewilderment as they leave. “Poetry?” he repeats at a complete loss. He shrugs. “Women.”

Gabrielle fights the urge to groan aloud at his cluelessness. Pity is wasted on the ignorant.  
  


* * *

  
  


“Poetry,” Fleur laughs as the door to Hermione’s chambers closes behind them and they fall into each other, a giggling mess. “You told them we were going to study poetry?”

Hermione arches a brow. “Are we not?” She pulls her close by the collars of her dress. Her voice drops and her eyes darken. The effect is instant as Fleur’s throat dries. “Poetry is a craft of the tongue is it not?”

Fleur hums. “And you, skilled tongued as ever, always have a response at the ready, don’t you my darling? It shall be my goal tonight to render it incapable of speech.”

Hermione leans in, pressing their noses together. “You may try but I will let you know that there is plenty my tongue can say without words.”

Fleur breathes in sharply. “Show me.”

Hermione leans in. 

The kiss starts out slow and gentle but heated as they savor the relief that spreads through their bodies when they connect – the ‘finally’ that is inhaled and immediately exhaled into the other. 

Hermione’s lips are sweet upon Fleur’s lips and she drinks them in greedily like the nectar of the gods, sucking, licking, and nipping in worship. She teases lower lips between her teeth and pulls gently, breaking the kiss. Hermione chases her, pulls her back for more as hands reach up and entangle through silky blond hair. 

Soon enough, slow and gentle are not enough. Fire burns through them, setting them aflame. 

Deft fingers loop around firm hips, roaming up a slender back to the strings that hold the dress up. It takes a couple of seconds and Fleur is too lost in the feeling of having Hermione _pressed_ against her in heated passion that she fumbles with the knot she tied. 

She growls into the kiss, feels Hermione respond with a shiver, and both the kissing and her fingers grow more desperate. 

Her lips tingle with embers and warm hands press into her body in soft places, needy and insistent, as if they’ve known her forever. Fleur unfolds completely under their touch. 

The dress finally falls and in its unveiling, Fleur finds her new religion. 

She steps back and drinks her in, the long brown hair that cascades down the curve of her pale neck, the strong lines of her shoulders, the ample swell of her bosoms; traces the dipped line of her waist as they widen to the hips then back in to shapely thighs and gorgeous long legs. 

“You are beautiful, my love,” Fleur chokes out. And it does not seem enough, but the lexicon of the english language escapes her in this moment and for the rest of the night, for she is reduced to nothing but an avid worshiper and she knows nothing but the language of worship for her new goddess. 

“Your turn. Turn around.”

The gentle commanding tone sends a shiver of excitement up Fleur’s spine as she obeys and turns around. 

Hermione makes quick work of her dress, not that Fleur has any awareness of passing time. Hot lips paint red across the back of her neck, all over her exposed shoulder, up to the curve of her jaw, and behind her ears. Every cell in her body roars to life, set alight by want. 

When her dress falls to her feet, Fleur turns and it is Hermione whose breath hitches and is left speechless. 

“Do you like what you see?” Fleur teases. 

“Very much so,” Hermione swallows hoarsely. 

They step close together. There is one last article of clothing that remains. 

Hermione smiles knowingly and extends her hand. In a move reminiscent of their first meeting, Fleur matches her smile and takes her hand in her own. Slender fingers press into her palm and once more Fleur yearns to feel their naked touch. This time, she does not hold back. 

In a swift motion, she removes them, tossing them over her shoulder before removing her own. 

Their hands meet, flesh to flesh, for the first time and they both fight back a shiver. Fleur bows her head, and presses her lips reverently to the back of the hand. They stand before each bare in body, soul, and mind. 

“Are you sure about this?” Fleur asks. 

“I have never been more sure in my life,” Hermione answers in a whisper, open and vulnerable. “Here, tonight in this room, let us be unburdened.” 

“Then indulge in your senses with me,” Fleur murmurs the words of awe into pale skin. “And let us make poetry.” 

She holds Hermione’s hand and leaves a trail of gentle ardent kisses from her hand to her arm, her shoulder, her neck, the curve of her jaw, and finally, her lips. Hermione’s eyes flutter close against her cheeks. 

They grab each other with a renewed sense of desperation. Their skin burns hot and inside them, an immortal flame. 

Fleur reaches down and hoists Hermione up by her thighs, and carries her to the bed. They fall onto soft sheets in a tangled mess of limbs. 

“Where do you want me?” Fleur pants. 

“Everywhere,” gasps Hermione. “Shower me with the heat of your lips. Let my body burn for yours.”

Fleur obliges. 

Her hands, ever so devout, reach up and grab a handful of breasts, as her fingers play with the buds, twisting, plucking. Her lips latch onto the side of Hermione’s neck, sucking and licking. 

Hermione arches into her touch, hands digging into Fleur’s back in pleasure. She pulls Fleur into her, needing to feel more. 

“You have driven me mad,” Fleur growls between fervent kisses. “I could not sleep. Could not eat. Could not talk.”

“Yet you have no trouble talking now," Hermione points out in irritation. "Need I remind you that your tongue is much needed– _oh.”_

Hermione releases her hold on Fleur as her hands fly to the sheets beside her, gripping them in pleasure. 

Fleur lowers her head and takes a stiff bud into her mouth, sucking. Her tongue swirls around it, hot and wet. Quiet whimpers escape from Hermione’s lips and Fleur feels her own desire pool inside of her. Her hands reach down, lower, and lower. She presses into the side of her hips and Hermione groans. Her hips buck upwards, grinding against Fleur’s leg. 

“No rushing,” Fleur teases. “Poetry is to be enjoyed slowly, picked apart delicately, so you can enjoy its every nuance.”

Hermione groans in protest. “When it is my turn to spit poetry from my tongue, you will find yourself deeply regretting your words,” she threatens through half-moans. 

“I cannot wait, my love.”

Hermione pushes her head lower and Fleur laughingly obliges. She trails lingering kisses down from her bosoms to her stomach. She skips where Hermione desperately wants her and instead ghosts her lips across a smooth inner thigh, trailing higher and higher, closer and closer. She waits. 

Rough fingers pull at her hair. 

“Fleur, _please_.”

Fleur presses her tongue against Hermione’s core. Hermione bites down hard on her lips but even that doesn’t muffle the moan that escapes her lips. Her chest arcs upwards in a beautiful picture and she shuts her eyes as waves of ecstasy roll over her with every flick of Fleur’s tongue. 

And Fleur, Fleur is ever so careful in her worship. She loves thoroughly, her tongue darting back and forth. She draws paintings of devotion and writes letters of love with her tongue, silent and powerful, until Hermione’s quiet gasps fill the air. 

Hermione rolls her hips desperately into her face and Fleur licks harder, faster. She brings a hand up, caressing the folds that hide heavens and beyond, and gently inserts a finger. 

Hermione’s thighs shake around her as she lets out a quiet whimper with parted lips; half lidded eyes clouded over in pleasure peer down at hers. 

“I might yet burst with how deeply you fill me, Fleur” Hermione pants in hurried breathless desire. 

Fleur increases her speed, inserting another finger as Hermione lets out another moan in approval. Her tongue presses hot and wet as her fingers curl, deep and insistent.

Hermione grinds her hips into Fleur, reaching down to pull her in closer. Fingers scrape lightly against her scalp and Fleur hums in satisfaction. The vibrations shoot through Hermione and she throws her head back in a quiet gasp. 

Her toes curl and her breaths quicken. Her body trembles uncontrollably but Fleur holds them in place, fingers digging into hardened muscles of soft skin, flexing against her thighs. Knuckles turn white against the bedsheets as Fleur somehow deepens inside of her.

And under her loving touches, Hermione succumbs; lets the raging fire inside devour her, _all_ _of her_.

Ecstasy shoots down her spine as her body arches off the bed and Fleur sends her hurtling over the edge. Her eyes shut and her jaw clenches as waves of pleasure ripple over her. Her legs spasm against Fleur’s careful coaxing and Fleur drinks the sweet honey that drips from her lower lips. 

Hermione blinks herself back into good consciousness as her body continues to ride out the high. 

“Oh my,” she gasps, chest heaving from exertion. “That was…”

“Agreeable?” Fleur supplies.

“Agreeable, lovely, exciting, pleasing, enjoyable, thrilling, splendid, wondrous, delightful, marvelous –”

“I see I have not managed to rob you of your words,” Fleur says wryly. 

Hermione laughs, breathless and happy, and pulls the other girl up to press a hard kiss to her mouth. 

“No, but I believe it is my turn to rob you of yours.”

Fleur fixes a soft look at her. “You already do.”

“Then let us see what else of yours I can take,” Hermione says with an arched brow as she flips them over in a fluid motion and lowers herself between her legs. 

Fleur finds herself on her back, impossibly turned on. Her legs throb with burning desire. 

_‘Take it. Take it all,’_ Fleur thinks desperately before she is lost in a haze of lust. She is willing to give everything. 

“Play me with your tongue, and I will sing for you melodies in which no man has ever heard before,” she husks. 

That is the last coherent thought that crosses her mind before she is overcome with pure bliss. 

Hermione’s tongue flicks at her clit, ever so delicate and light. It builds the pressure just right. Swirling, around and around. Fleur pushes herself up, eager to feel more, but Hermione’s strong arms hold her down. She nearly cries in frustration. 

“Poetry is to be enjoyed slowly, remember?” Hermione teases. Fleur almost whines. 

“You are a fast learner,” she gasps out, fingers clenching into the bedsheets. 

She feels the smirk in between her legs. “So I have been told.”

Hermione presses her tongue against her, long and hard and Fleur’s face scrunches in pleasure. Warm lips take her in, sucking. 

And in the veil of the night, surrounded by the four corners of the room, she sings her melodies. 

It doesn’t take long afterwards for her to go falling over the edge. She throws her head back and comes in a quivering whimper. Her leg convulses against Hermione’s firm strokes and a hand runs itself up and down her leg soothingly.

Fleur falls onto her pillow with a blissful sigh. Hermione crawls over her and she accepts her lips eagerly. 

“I hope you are not tired already,” Hermione smirks and the sight of those lips combined with the wild strands of hair that frame her face sends a jolt of desire shooting through Fleur. 

“Not at all, I am just getting started, my love.”

“Good,” says Hermione. “Because I still want to caress your curves, kiss you up and down your thighs, bite your lips, and pull your hair. I want to taste your innocence and make you arch back and scream, _over and over_.” 

Fleur’s eyes darken with want. 

“And I believe it is my turn to teach you something.”

“Is it now?”

Hermione sits up and shifts until she’s back between Fleur’s legs. She caresses the thigh, kissing it softly, before throwing the leg over her shoulder. Fleur gulps. 

“Tell me,” says Hermione, eyes dark and mischievous. “Are you familiar with horse riding?”

Fleur breathes out heavily. “Not as intimately as I would like, I’m afraid.”

Hermione laughs at the callback. She throws her head back, carefree and glorious and Fleur’s heart softens at the sight. 

“Well,” says Hermione. “Let me show you what I call ‘A Lady’s Ride.’”

She begins to grind and Fleur sees stars. 

And all night long they make love and spill their passion across their sheets. 

* * *

  
  


The next day they wake in each other’s arms with the taste of the other on their lips. 

Hermione snuggles into the crook of Fleur’s neck as she pulls her close and sighs in content. It has been a long time since she’s felt so filled. The fire that lies beneath her veins is quenched for now. 

“Call me foolish,” Fleur whispers, not wanting to break the tranquilness of the morning, “but I feel that with you by my side and mine by yours, perhaps one day I would know what it means to love.”

Her voice is so soft, so vulnerable, it breaks something inside Hermione’s heart. 

“It is foolish,” Hermione responds, “to think such a thing when we’ve only known each other for a few days, but such is the nature of these things, I suppose.” The grip on her tightens and she knows she has done a poor job at reassurance. So she adds, “It is not time or opportunity that is to determine intimacy; it is disposition alone. Seven years would be insufficient to make some people acquainted with each other, and seven days are more than enough for others.” She peers up at Fleur. 

“I think in time, I too, will grow to love you.”

Fleur smiles and it is the most beautiful thing Hermione has ever seen. 

She nuzzles her nose into Hermione’s hair. “We will deal with cousin Henry together.”

“Please,” Hermione laughs. “I really do not want to marry him or any man for that matter.”

“And there is no way I would ever let you,” Fleur says fondly. “We are two smart women. I am sure we can find a way to rid him out of the picture.” 

“Together then?"

“Together.”

**Author's Note:**

> “Do you read Sappho?” is this fic’s version of “Do you listen to girl in in red?” *wink*wink*
> 
> This ended up being more of a tribute to Sappho than Austen since I just can't seem to stay away from the Greek. The Sappho poem I used is known as Fragment 31 and translations will vary because Ancient Greek is hard. 
> 
> Thank you all for reading! Let me know how I did on my first ever smut (!!!) 
> 
> P.S. Remember to check out rice_and_beans' fics for some more fleurmione smut.


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